


What hold of worth

by zinjadu



Series: Wed to Blight [12]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Gen, Recruitment, and so is pity, no one likes Zevran at first, people are puzzles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-05
Updated: 2018-09-05
Packaged: 2019-07-07 10:17:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15906258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zinjadu/pseuds/zinjadu
Summary: What possessed Caitwyn Tabris, Thedas's most cautious elf, to let an assassin join the band?  It certainly wasn't his Antivan charm.  Later, Zevran assesses the people he's fallen in with, and decides that maybe this isn't the worst outcome.





	What hold of worth

Caitwyn eyed the Crow as he laid on the ground, all the information wrung out of him, though she had the sense that he was holding something back.  Nothing about Loghain or his plans, no. But _something_ .  Forcing her mind into cold, logical tracks, she tried to ignore the flash of heat in his eyes and the playful smirk on his lips.  The offer made her want to climb up a tree and never come down, her feet itching to flee, a claw of fear tracing along her back— _too close, sweat and blood and all she did not want_.

And yet, she could not unsee the glimmer of calculation in him, and the accompanying knowledge that he made the offer in a bid to save his own life.  If his skills as a killer were not wanted, he would sell himself however he could to stay alive.

In that moment, the bickering of her friends receding into the background, Caitwyn’s chest tightened.  To survive, what would she do? What had others like her done to survive Denerim’s streets and manor houses?  Too much, and yet never enough. A dark tendril of horror and sorrow gripped her beastbone and held her fast.

“He cannot be allowed to leave alive,” Sten decreed.

“I know of the Crows,” Leliana interrupted to Sten’s grumble.  “His life _is_ forfeit no matter what we do with him.”  She pitied the Crow, perhaps, whereas Sten saw an enemy to be dispatched.

“What assurances do we have that he will not attempt to finish his task at a later date?  When our guard is down?” Morrigan asked sharply, her features etched with indigatinion in the afternoon sunlight.  “I, too, have heard tell of these Crows. They are not merely skilled with blades, but poisons as well.”

“We really aren’t that desperate, are we?” Alistair asked, his bouncing voice carrying a grim undertone.  Any creature of Loghain’s was suspect, she knew. He would not like this, none of them would. She had only just started to see them as friends, and maybe they saw her that way as well.  Would she lose friends over this? She had so little left, and she’d started to find _something_ like what she knew at home.  Could he even be worth it?

“We need him,” she said, the words hopping out of her mouth like the little frogs near the docks to the Circle Tower.  Incredulous voices rose, and Caitwyn did her best to mollify her travelling companions though she watched this Antivan closely.  She’d learned how to read people, but this Crow was a puzzle she couldn’t put together just yet. There had been several possibilities for what his reaction might’ve been.  A gleam of subdued triumph, another flash of overt sexuality, or even resignation to an unpleasant task. Instead, she saw something almost like hope before it was quashed and replaced by a satisfied twist of his lips.

“Wynne, get him mobile, and then we need to move.  I don’t want to be anywhere near here come sundown,” she ordered.  The older mage had said nothing during the whole exchange, and Caitwyn had the sense that the woman was evaluating her all over again.  Caitwyn turned away, ignoring the little voice that told her to extend a hand to the assassin, to help him up. Taking refuge in cold practicality, the practicality she needed to hold on to, she turned to Sten.  “Bind his hands behind him and keep an eye on him. If he tries to run—”

The words stuck in her throat, but Sten nodded as though she had said them.  She was no ruler, no lord or leader. Maker, she could _order_ a man dead, and someone would do it?  A black worm of revulsion—at herself—crawled along her stomach, but she pushed it down.  It wouldn’t do any good now, not now that she’d made the choice.

“A wise decision,” the giant agreed before tending to his charge.  Caitwyn kept her eyes focused ahead and picked up her pace, returning to her scouting.  She heard more mutters behind her, but only Maethor trotted at her side now. Just her and the dog on the road that was choked with summer dust.  Just her and her pity for the man that had tried to kill her without remorse.

 

* * *

 

Zevran watched these new people around him as they made camp for the evening, and he thought he understood how things stood.  The young girl Warden, and she really was quite young he saw, led this group. Zevran had thought it would be the human man. Human men _did_ tend to assume they had the right to lead, and the men who hired him had told him to ensure the young man was dead.  Yet, to the last they deferred to this tiny slip of a girl. She was pretty little thing, and his offer would not be without some enjoyment.  And yet, if he was not mistaken, she had been stricken at the very idea of sharing his blankets.

A strange one, this girl.  A puzzle he had not expected in this barbaric country.

The rest were less difficult to understand.  The tall, broadly built human, with his open face was the easiest to read.  He openly distrusted Zevran, which was to be expected, and Zevran found it almost amusing to watch him try to swallow what his fellow Warden had decreed.  The qunari was not difficult either, aside from Zevran’s general surprise of seeing a qunari this far south. One of their soldiers, a stoic, reserved individual, but forthright, the Sten treated Zevran with the perfunctory consideration of a disinterested jailer.  Though Zevran did not doubt the giant would carry out his orders swiftly if Zevran tried anything.

Not that he planned on doing anything other than living up to his word.  After all, he had nowhere else to go. Should the Crows attempt to kill him, this Warden was well equipped to help defend him.  How odd, to suddenly want to live. Staring down his death in large, summer-green eyes, he had chosen life.

He caught sight of the witch and the red-headed woman watching him from opposite ends of the camp.  The witch’s snarling suspicion had something of an edge of protectiveness to it, and Zevran had to tamp down the urge to blithely comment on how easy it would be tip a touch of the wrong mushroom into the evening stew.  Too soon, yes. Perhaps later, though, after he had earned a touch of trust. It would amuse regardless of the timing. The red-head, ah, she was an interesting one. Her little bow lips pursed thoughtfully at him, but he knew when a fellow professional was sizing him up, and she certainly was.  Most interesting. She spoke like a woman of faith, but she had a killer’s eyes. For all the shadows around her, however, he could see through her. Then there was the mage, an older woman yes, but still an alluring one. She dripped power and precision, for all that she presented herself as a wise older woman.  

So many fascinating people in one place, and yet the girl kept his attention more than the rest.  There was a quiet to her, and not simply the kind of quiet to do with stealth. Even when she moved, there was a cautious stillness to her, as if she evaluated every motion before she completed it.

What drove her, he wondered.  What drove her to take in the collection of strays that followed her now?  What drove her on when, as he suspected, she wanted none of this? What went on behind those eyes that saw too much?

The chance to live had brought him to this point, but it was curiosity that might make him stay.


End file.
